


Heavy Dreams

by Chubstilinski



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Chubby Kink, Chubby Ronan, Chubby Ronan Lynch, Dream Food, Food Kink, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, POV Adam Parrish, Pining, Pynch Week, Pynch Week 2018, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Stuffing, Weight Gain, Wet Dream, tight clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 03:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15452580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chubstilinski/pseuds/Chubstilinski
Summary: Of course, Adam had thought about it before. But it had been furtive, in passing—a vague, unexplored wondering about how much bigger he looked, how his stomach might feel to the touch. But he hadn’t realized what it meant.The wondering was different now. It was consuming.Written for Pynch Week 2018 Day 6: Thunderstorm // Restraint // Indulgence





	Heavy Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Many many many thanks to the lovelyyy [donutwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutwolf/pseuds/donutwolf) for all her help and cheerleading! 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy this fic that I spent Entirely Too Much Time on!!

In retrospect, Adam should have realized it sooner.

There were signs that should have tipped him off—the way his heart pounded when Ronan touched him, even if it was casual, even if it was just for a fraction of a second. The way his internal monologue had always spat out telling words like ‘handsome,’ ‘beautiful,’ ‘unattainable.’ The lurch in his stomach, the blatant admiration of him, so suspiciously similar to the way he'd reacted to Blue, once.

And it was fitting that Adam’s sudden, painful shift into understanding started with a dream, because _of course_ it did.

The dream was this: A summer forest, waves of heat, crackling exhilaration. The sensation of someone pressed against him, so incredibly soft. But it was all impressions. He didn’t dream like Ronan—technicolor and so hyperreal he could _make_ it real, bring it out of his dreams where it took on life and had all the wild complexity of the world around it.

Adam’s dreams were indistinct—feelings and fuzzy images tangled around each other like vines. It had taken him a moment to realize, after he’d woken up hard and gasping, twisted in his sheets, that that soft, heavy weight on top of him had been _Ronan_. He’d caught flickers of a sharp grin and the hooks of his tattoo curling around his neck, his tongue, his lips, his bare, heated skin. Unmistakable.

Adam’s stomach bottomed out. He breathed deep, shuddery lungfuls of dusty air. He spent a moment staring at the pitched ceiling of St. Agnes and trying to forget the pleasant tingling in his lips, as if they could still feel the ghost of Ronan’s.

But he couldn’t forget, and part of him didn’t want to, and so he’d wrapped a hand around himself, brought himself off, quick and perfunctory. It could have been any other morning, any other muted fantasy. Except this time, the strange sense memory of Ronan had him gasping, hips rising off the bed like he was chasing something more, unsatisfied with the roughness of his own hand when what he wanted was Ronan, God, _Ronan_.

He put it out of his mind as much as he could while he showered, got dressed, drove to school, but it was still there—an itch under his skin.

In Latin that day, Adam took the seat behind Gansey, and he watched Ronan walk in, almost late by seconds. He couldn’t stop his eyes from lingering over his face, his broad shoulders, the way his formerly-tapered waist swelled softly against the fabric of his Aglionby sweater—and just like that, Adam was lit up with it. That same _need_ that had swallowed him that morning.

Because that was a part of it, wasn’t it? The dream had been completely saturated in Ronan’s softness and heaviness, and it shouldn’t have caught him so off guard that part of his desire was so wrapped up in _that_.

Of course, Adam had thought about it before. But it had been furtive, in passing—a vague, unexplored wondering about how much bigger he looked, how his stomach might feel to the touch. But he hadn’t realized what it meant.

The wondering was different now. It was consuming.

Ronan strode over to them, punched Gansey’s shoulder, and cuffed the back of Adam’s head, almost a hair-ruffle, fingers catching in the strands. Usually touches like that coming from Ronan would make him tense up, leave him bristling for reasons he'd never cared to examine. But in the wake of that dream, Adam was all too aware of the way his scalp tingled, how his heart sang under the touch.

He'd misread the feeling all this time.

In his peripheral vision, Ronan slouched into the desk next to him, legs spread wide and hands behind his head, belly pushed out, totally unselfconscious of taking up space and radiating that casual confidence that Adam had always been envious of.

But it did something else to him, too, now—something that tugged low in his gut. Adam was left with a new kind of awareness of something familiar.

 

***

 

Aglionby’s tennis team was practicing after school. Even if he hadn’t already known this—which he had—Adam could hear the unmistakable sound of it. He walked off campus past the courts rather than take another route despite his better judgement. It was the most direct path to the lot where he’d parked the Hondayota, but he could admit to himself that that's not why he did it.  

Gansey, thankfully, had a teacher he wanted to speak with after class, but Adam had to get to work. And so Noah was the sole witness to the way Adam couldn’t help but slow down and search for a familiar face. He wasn’t difficult to spot. Even if the shaved head and tattoo didn’t give him away, his size did.

Ronan was flushed and panting with exertion. He pulled up the hem of his sweaty, translucent tennis polo to swipe over his forehead. Adam would have only had to look for a second, a fraction of a second, for the image to sear itself into his mind: the bottom of his belly catching in the hem before he could pull it free and then dropping, bouncing, quivering—shiny with sweat and so unbearably thick. Adam looked for several seconds, and it wasn’t until Noah elbowed him in the ribs he realized he’d stopped walking altogether.

“Oh man, you got it bad,” Noah said, delighted.

Adam’s tongue was too heavy in his mouth to respond, and he couldn’t defend himself anyway, not when Noah knew, regardless. He always had a way of knowing.

Ronan turned, eyes landing unerringly on Adam and Noah. He gave them a bro-nod and dropped his shirt, pulled it down, but his belly was still tantalizingly on display. The shirt was last-season tight and somehow that was exactly as tempting as the sight of his bare skin.

Adam nodded back, and pulled Noah away even as he was waving enthusiastically. Adam felt unpleasantly warm even though the air was cool, and every muscle in his body was coiled tight.

 

***

 

It was distracting, to be so hyper-aware of him. Adam couldn’t focus in class like he used to, at least not with Ronan there. He knew Ronan skipped school about as often as he went, but, as if specifically to drive him crazy, he was _always_ present for the ones he shared with Adam.

And he would sit there, his uniform just a little too snug around his belly, enough that Adam could see the ripples of buttons pulled tight underneath his sweater. Khakis pinched his waist, wrapped taut around his thighs. And every once in awhile, Adam could catch him mid-stretch. Ronan’s uniform was constantly in artful disarray—button-down never tucked in, in flagrant violation of the dress code—so with his arms raised, the hem of his shirt would slide up enough to reveal an inch or so of smooth, soft belly.

Adam was lucky he worked so hard, knew the subjects so well. His schoolwork hadn’t yet taken a significant hit from this distraction, and he couldn’t afford for it to. But he was still on edge, too tense to monitor his subtlety like he should have been. He was staring, and he knew it.

Ronan was in the desk next to him, fist propping up his head, squishing one chubby cheek while he doodled in his notebook. But in an instant, like he could sense Adam’s eyes, he dropped his arm and turned his head to face him. “ _What?_ ” Ronan snapped.

Adam whispered, “Nothing.” He turned his face back to the front of the classroom, unseeing. He felt heat creep up the sides of his face and the back of his neck and knew Ronan was still looking at him. He wanted, masochistically, for him to press for answers, but he didn’t.

Adam could feel Cabeswater clawing for attention, like it had been all day—the edges of his vision rippling with delicate shadows of leaves and trees. He brushed flower petals off his desk, into his hand, so he could tuck them into his backpack before anyone could see. They were a near-electric, tropical ocean blue—almost exactly the color of Ronan’s eyes.

Adam tore a tiny square off the bottom of his notebook sheet and wrote on it, messy, his hands shaking. _Cabeswater stuff after school?_

He passed it to Ronan and he snorted. He leaned over the aisle between them, getting as close as he could, and his belly oozed over the side of the desk bracketing him in.

Adam’s heart stuttered.

“Passing notes in class? You’re getting to be such a delinquent.”

“You’re a bad influence.”

“Damn right.”

“Mr. Lynch,” their teacher said, exasperation in his voice. He’d already reprimanded Ronan three times in the past 20 minutes of this class period.

Ronan rolled his eyes, but mimed zipping his mouth.

A few minutes later, Ronan slipped a folded piece of unlined sketchbook paper under the corner of Adam’s book. Adam unfolded it carefully. _Anything for you, Magician,_ it said. It was illustrated with doodles of Ronan and Chainsaw, next to them Adam in a wizard hat and staff.

He fought back a laugh, and a feeling washed over him, a lightness, too close to giddy to feel at all familiar or comfortable. He folded the note back up and slipped it into his pocket. He’d have to find a place to store the drawing where Ronan wouldn’t find it when he was rifling through Adam’s things, uninvited, always taking up his space.

 

He heard the BMW’s honk, long and obnoxious like Ronan was leaning on the horn, and threw on a jacket. He raced down St. Agnes’s back stairs, tarot deck in hand, but slowed his steps towards the bottom, walked out to meet him like he wasn’t strangely eager for it, like the sight of his wicked grin through the driver’s side window didn’t make him feel ten degrees hotter.

When he was able to focus enough to scry, he told Ronan where to go. It was in the next town over, into the woods and down a bumpy dirt road. Ronan took the winding turns at breakneck speed, and Adam tried to concentrate on the thrill of it, to take his eyes off the way speeding over the rocky ground made all of Ronan’s extra weight jiggle and sway, but it was an impossible task.

His belly folded over the seat belt at his waist, plump and inviting, shirt just tight enough to show where the hollow of his navel sat. The sight was frustratingly lovely, and Adam was nearly overcome by the desire to drink it in, to _touch_. But he was used to denying himself things, and he turned his eyes to the jagged road in front of them. The orange-red-yellow of crisp autumn trees.

He had Ronan help him heave rocks into a shape more pleasing to the ley line. Adam watched him work, took in the flush under his skin, his gasping breath, the strength evident in the bulge of his biceps and the set of his shoulders. Ronan was annoyed, had dirt smeared over his clothes and hands. He bitched and moaned the entire time he worked, but it pleased Adam, strangely, that Ronan knew what he’d come here to do, and did it anyway. For him.

And afterwards, with Ronan’s shirt sweaty and stuck in places, he felt closer than ever to the edge, nearly tripping over it, just barely keeping himself in check.

Adam was always controlled. He was able to hold everything back, right until the moment he snapped. It felt almost inevitable that he would—just a matter of time.

He opened his mouth.

The phone Ronan had tossed on the hood of his car buzzed, startling him. Ronan held his gaze rather than make a move for it, so Adam did it for him.

He read the screen. “Gansey wants to meet us for gelato,” Adam said past the heart lodged in his throat.

“Thank fuck,” Ronan said, “I'm starving.”

 

***

 

Adam had allowed himself to take enough food from Ronan’s heaping bag of burgers and fries that he was pleasantly full, not a feeling he often got the chance to indulge in. There was some residual sense of guilt, of course, for having taken it, the lingering feeling that he'd accepted some sort of charity. But Ronan had offered so carelessly, like it wasn’t even a gift, and Adam was too distracted to dwell too much on it.

He was at his desk, ostensibly filling out a worksheet for AP Physics, but he was unfocused, too aware of Ronan sitting on his floor and stuffing food in his mouth, like he was determined to polish off the whole bag. He was dripping condiments down his chin and then licking it off his thumb, leaning back with an elbow propped against Adam’s mattress so his belly stuck out, the hem of his shirt riding up to show a sliver of soft looking skin and the trail of dark hair that curved up the center.

He was such a carelessly indulgent creature, and it made Adam _furious_. He grit his teeth and breathed deep through his nose, trying to calm down.

He wasn’t under the delusion that having money, on its own, made you fat. There were plenty of fat people in the trailer park who lived off of the McDonald’s dollar menu and had no time or energy to exercise, and plenty of skinny rich people who had dietitians provide meal plans full of expensive health food and maintained their physique with the help of hundred-dollar-an-hour personal trainers.

But when Ronan ate, it was so clearly rooted in _excess_ , so unrestrained, so unlike the way Adam treated food. The way he had to. Ronan had the leisure time to work out, and he had enough money to be able to afford the most pretentious health foods for every meal. Tiny portions with exorbitant price tags. But instead he ate whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Double, triple what Adam himself ate sometimes.

There was no reason why such indulgence made Adam’s stomach flutter. Why he watched, out of the corner of his eye, in stolen glances, as Ronan took greedy bites of too much food, not even thinking about stopping until it was gone. Adam would have been so conscious of wasting it, of how he could save it and eat it tomorrow, even if it wouldn’t be as good. But Ronan never worried about that; he would eat it all, every bit, no thought to how he was already full.

It was infuriating and appealing in the space of a breath, stirring something deeply complicated in Adam. And he wanted, so badly, to watch him do it. Really watch him, without worrying about getting caught. To see that belly swell with enough food in one sitting to last Adam a whole day.

Ronan didn’t buy this food, he _dreamt_ it, but he would have been able to get it even if he hadn’t. That didn’t change anything.

And it did. It changed _everything_ because it was so absolutely unlimited, that he’d always have access to more, that he’d keep indulging as long as it pleased him to do so. It made Adam tremble—a little dizzy with everything he wanted.

Ronan shoved the last bite in his mouth and crumpled up the wrapper while he chewed, making soft humming noises. He burped under his breath and sucked his fingers clean, wiped them off on his shirt, and it should’ve been disgusting, but it wasn’t. _It wasn’t._

Adam’s heart was knocking against his ribs. His pencil was held in a white-knuckled grip, just shy of splintering the wood. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and found Ronan shifting to lie across his floor, next to his bed, sprawled out with his belly rising in a dome, overfull, a picture of gluttony and contentment.

Adam finished his homework to the tune of Ronan’s grumbling stomach and soft snores, the little gurgles that slipped out of his open mouth.

He stepped out into the cold air to get his head on straight before finally going to bed, curled around a pillow and head facing the wall so he wouldn’t have to look at Ronan’s peacefully sleeping face or his full belly.

 

When he woke up, he found something on the pillow next to him: two breakfast burritos, wrappers covered in tiny ravens. Ronan was gone—his blankets and pillow heaped in a corner along with a new, crumpled fast food bag right next to the one from last night.

Adam groaned and pressed a pillow over his face. He refused to touch himself to the thought of Ronan pulling food from his dreams, of him eating until his belly was full, bloated even bigger than it normally was. Doing it to the thought Ronan’s body—his chest, thick thighs, his belly, _God_ , his belly—was more than bad enough. He lasted until he flipped onto his stomach and the pressure of the mattress left him shaking, needy.

And he finally let himself imagine it: Ronan filling himself up with fervent greed, dreaming up food whenever he wanted, an unlimited feast making him fatter, fatter.  

 

***

 

Adam swiped a frozen pizza off the shelf before Ronan could pick it up. He looked at the price tag and said, “Ronan, this is seventeen dollars.”

Ronan slammed the freezer door, grabbed the box out of Adam’s hand and tossed it carelessly into the shopping cart. “Yeah, and?”

Adam sighed. Looking at the mountain of junk food filling the cart disgusted him, filled him with a low-grade, gnawing jealousy and bitterness.

Focusing on that was safer than focusing on the more dominant feeling sweeping through him. The one that made him feel flushed and warm, that made him want to know how much of this was for Gansey, and how much of it was just for Ronan. That made him want to press his lips to Ronan’s soft jawline, nearly a double chin.

Adam cleared his throat and said, harsher than he meant, “That’s absurd, you don’t need a seventeen dollar frozen pizza. Don’t you go to Nino’s like every other day, anyway?”

He watched Ronan’s cheeks redden and his face go carefully blank. He took off with the cart, nearly running over the man shopping next to them. He spat, “Fuck you, Parrish.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Adam said, speed walking to catch up with him.

“Whatever.”

“The store brand is one ninety-nine.”

Ronan turned his head to look at him, and Adam watched, relieved, as his mask of indifference melted away under an eye-roll. “That’s because it’s made of fucking cardboard.”

At the checkout lane, Ronan picked up armfuls of food and dropped them onto the conveyor belt. Adam itched to organize it, right all the containers, spread everything out, but he wasn’t about to clean up after Ronan. Instead he let his eyes rake over the display of candy and gum set by the registers for last-minute purchases.

He picked a grotesquely large candy bar off the shelf, flipped it over and read the back.

20 grams of fat. 514 calories.

Adam inhaled sharply, closed his eyes for a moment, debated with himself. He dropped the candy bar into the cart when Ronan’s back was turned and hoped he didn’t notice.

But, of course, he did. When he picked it up, he glanced at Adam, eyebrow raised.

“What?” Adam said.

Ronan’s eyes narrowed, but he loaded it onto the conveyor belt with the rest.

Adam avoided looking at the total, knowing it was likely $200.00 at least, but not wanting to confirm it. It was easier being friends with Ronan when he didn’t know how much he spent on groceries.

It was also easier being friends with Ronan back when he wasn’t consumed by thoughts of how so much indulgence would affect his body, how much bigger he’d get, how much he could eat in one sitting.

Out in the parking lot, Ronan drew the cart to a stop and said, “Get in, Parrish.”

Adam’s heart picked up, anticipatory—the high of doing something reckless, something _fun_ already needling at him. But he couldn’t give in that easily. He glared at Ronan, knowing it was a weak protest because he smirked, already satisfied. Adam sighed and looked at how completely the mound of plastic bags filled the cart. He said, “There’s no room for me in there, Ronan. You bought out the whole store.”

A muscle ticked in Ronan’s jaw, but otherwise his face remained the same. Smirking, round cheeks flushed from the cold, breathtakingly handsome. Adam caved.

He shuffled around some of the bags, piling them on top of each other, creating enough space for him to climb in and plant his feet on the bottom. He crouched, gripping the sides, a thrill coursing through him when the cart started to move.

The parking lot was middle-of-the-night empty, the sky a moonless, velvety black. Cold wind whipped across Adam’s skin, but inside he was lit up, electric hot. He felt a grin stretch across his face, he felt his heart beating rapid, euphoric, in his chest—felt Ronan behind him, close enough that he could feel his body heat radiating into his back.

They moved faster, faster, towards the BMW. Adam’s mind was so awake, so completely present in a way he almost never was. He shut his eyes.

Adam had trouble rationalizing why Ronan, of all people, could bring him outside himself like this. Why he would let Ronan drag him behind a moving car or push him in a shopping cart, careening through a parking lot, on a crash course bent for destruction. It wasn’t something he allowed himself often, but for just a few blissful, adrenaline-fueled moments, Adam could be free.

He opened his eyes. They were coming dangerously close to the back bumper of the BMW, and just when Adam thought they might hit it, Ronan swerved. His turn was too sharp, sent the cart overbalancing, and Adam and Ronan and all the groceries scattering. Adam bailed a second before impact, elbows scraping against the pavement, and Ronan landed with a thud on top of him, crushing the air out of his lungs.

“ _Fuck, shit_ ,” Ronan hissed. His breath brushed Adam’s neck and for just a moment, Adam felt the full, heavy weight of him, holding him down. With adrenaline still coursing through his blood, pain was a distant feeling, but he felt _every pound_ of Ronan’s body.

Ronan lifted himself up onto his elbows, and Adam gasped, finally able to draw a full breath of air. He only moved enough to look Adam in the eye. Ronan was warm, and soft—still weighing him down, stomach to thigh—and he was haloed in the street light behind him, distressingly beautiful. Adam was struck by the almost painful desire to kiss him.

But Ronan pushed up onto his hands, a bright smile on his face, and he laughed. It was sunny, open, full of the kind of joy that was so rare on Ronan, Adam couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it. His heart seized and he laughed, helplessly, in response.

For a long moment, he was caught up in this strange, bright moment, drowning in Ronan’s happiness.

He was straddling Adam, now, leaning forward with his hands braced on the ground, and the position had his belly dropping onto Adam’s over and over, convulsing, shaking with the force of his laughter. It was better than anything he had ever felt: achingly soft, plump, quivering flesh against his flat stomach. Adam couldn’t breathe.

Ronan rolled off of him before he could do something stupid, like grab him, draw him back down, kiss the smile off his face. When he was on his feet, he held out his hand. Adam grasped it, letting himself be heaved up with a strong grip. They stood in each other’s space, hands clasped. Ronan’s belly brushed against Adam’s and their eyes connected. Adam’s heart was in his throat. He licked his lips.

Ronan let go of his hand and trailed his fingers down Adam’s arm, goosebumps following their path, down to his scraped up elbow. He lifted the rolled up sleeve of Adam’s shirt higher so he could see the damage. His brow furrowed and smoothed out, quick enough that Adam could have missed it if he weren't so focused on Ronan’s face. Still smiling, he said, “You’ll live.”

“No thanks to you,” Adam said, but it was quiet, shaky. He’d never felt more alive.

Ronan thumped him on the shoulder, gentle, and turned around, crouched down to the ground so he could pick up his groceries. A beer can and a jar of marinara sauce had exploded on the pavement, but most of it was still intact. Adam helped Ronan re-bag everything and shove it all in the trunk of the BMW.

And all the while he was vibrating with energy, fingers itching to find purchase in the love handles spilling over the waistband of Ronan's tight designer jeans. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

 

***

 

Gansey, Blue, Noah, Ronan and Adam left Nino’s full of pizza. Ronan with enough pizza for the rest of them, _combined_. And not just because Noah didn’t eat, Adam couldn’t afford it, and Blue absolutely refused to eat at Nino’s outside of work hours. Ronan had started ordering his own deep dish sausage pie weeks ago, apparently no longer satisfied with sharing. He claimed it was so he wouldn’t get Gansey’s avocado leaking over to the other slices, but Adam had a suspicion it was just so he could have more to himself.

He’d watched Ronan, discreetly, as he devoured slice after greasy slice, savoring every bite. He kept eating even after everyone else had finished, even Gansey, until every bite was stuffed into his swollen stomach.  

Adam was on-edge, filled with the wild, anticipatory feeling that came from watching Ronan eat like that. A feeling he hadn’t understood in its entirety before, and even now that he did, it confused him—left him unsteady.

Adam shut the door behind him with too much force and a harsh jangle of bells. No one even spared him a glance, but he winced, anyway. Adam hated feeling so out of control. He needed to calm down.

He breathed in a deep lungful of humid, unseasonably warm air and stared up at the sickly purple-grey of the sky while his friends discussed what to do with the evening. They’d go back to Monmouth, which was no big surprise, and Adam found himself catching a ride from Ronan, which was even less of one.

Beside him, in the driver’s seat, Ronan was squirming and bloated, his belly so perfectly round in his lap. His eyes were fixed on the road because at some point over the last couple of weeks, Ronan had stopped shooting Adam questioning looks whenever his gaze lingered for just a little too long. Either he was getting used to it, or Adam was getting better at sneaking glances.

It was utterly silent the five minutes it took them to get to Monmouth save for the rev of the engine and squeal of tires. No electronica, no talking, just deep, non-companionable silence. They took the long way to get back, anyway.

Ronan peeled into the parking lot, BMW cutting a haphazard, diagonal gash across the dividing lines, stomped on the brake, cut the engine and fisted his hands around the steering wheel instead of getting out. The Pig was already in the lot, garish orange in the dim, hazy gray of the afternoon.

Adam sighed and counted down until the explosion.

When it came, Ronan’s voice was low and frustrated. “Jesus fuck, Parrish, you’ve been jumpy as shit for, like, two fucking weeks. What the fuck is wrong with you.”

“Nothing, Ronan, what the hell?”

“Well then stop fucking _looking_ at me like that.”

Adam’s stomach rolled. “Like _what_ ,” he said, incredulous as he could manage, like he didn’t know exactly how he’d been looking at Ronan.

“Like you—whatever. It’s fucking annoying.”

Adam rolled his eyes to cover his embarrassment. He clenched his jaw and curled his fingers around the door handle. It had started to rain, fat drops splattering the windows. “Noted,” he spat.

Ronan fit a hand around his arm, holding him back, strong but not tight. “Do you have a problem with me, or something, Parrish?”

There was a fight in his eyes, tension in the set of his mouth, but his voice fell an inch too short, a drop of vulnerability slipping through the cracks. Adam stilled, caught off guard. “No, Jesus, Ronan. We’re fine. We’re good.”

Ronan relaxed a fraction, but didn’t take his eyes off him, and they were still flinty, dangerous, like he could use them to cut straight through Adam’s bullshit. The heat of his hand seeped through Adam’s jacket sleeve, settling into his skin, his bones, unravelling him.

“Why the fuck do you keep staring at me?”

“Because—shit, Ronan, because I _want_ to, okay?” He’d meant it to sound defiant, like he was being asked to justify something that didn’t need justification at all. But it was too close to the truth. The real meaning behind the words was clear, his tone reflecting just how much he _wanted_ to look at Ronan. He was exposed.

Ronan’s eyes went wide, and he said, “What?”

Adam’s ears felt hot, and he tried to backtrack even though the look on Ronan’s face told him it was too late. “Never mind. It doesn’t _mean_ anything. You’re overreacting.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Adam.”

“Fine, okay! I just—God, I _want_ to. I want… I want—”

Maybe it was in the way Adam’s eyes dropped, helplessly, to Ronan’s lips, or the frantic haze around him like someone who’d been caught, or just how Ronan could read him in ways no one else could, but there was a moment where Ronan’s face softened with realization.

He leaned in and kissed Adam.

The shock of it lit him up from the point where their lips connected. Adam kissed back, and just like that, any plans he might have had, any ideas on how this might happen, crumbled away. But it was good, it was _better_.

Ronan’s lips were closed, little more than pressure against his, but sensation raced through every inch of Adam, sparks skittering across his skin. He pressed back, parted his lips, made a sound so soft and so needy he hoped to God Ronan didn’t hear it.

Ronan pulled back, and Adam blinked open his eyes to find Ronan’s flicking over his face.

Lips tingling, too impatient to wait for Ronan to kiss him again, Adam fit his palms over Ronan’s soft cheeks and pulled him back, catching his plush bottom lip between his. He could feel the reverberations of the sound Ronan made against his lips; he caught it on his tongue.

Ronan licked into his mouth, ferocity and longing dripping from his tongue, and Adam let the rush of it wash over him, the feeling of being wanted back, wanted by _Ronan_.

He shivered when Adam dragged his fingers down his neck, his chest, and he took a moment to marvel that Ronan was reacting to him like this, like he wanted it just as much, though he almost couldn't see how it was possible. Adam wanted so much he couldn't take it, felt like he could burst from it. He braced one hand on the console to support his weight as he pushed closer, closer.

Suddenly Adam couldn't stand not touching him any longer, and he reached his hand out, fingers fluttering with nerves, hesitating before impact. His hand settled over Ronan’s waist, and _God_. He was soft, so soft. Adam ignited, heat clawing through his veins. He just barely managed to keep himself from palming the swell of fat under his hand, from _squeezing_.

He kept his hand still, cupped lightly around Ronan's hip as the kiss grew hungry, desperate. Even with sheets of rain blurring the windows, it was far too intimate for the semi-public parking lot next to Monmouth Manufacturing. But Ronan was kissing him, dragging in rapid, shallow breaths through his nose, moaning low in his throat, nearly inaudible, hands clutching Adam’s t-shirt, and Adam couldn’t bring himself to do so much as slow down.

His hands grew greedy, grip tightening over Ronan’s love handles, and Ronan gasped. He broke the kiss just long enough to take a deep, shaky breath and dove back in. It made Adam bold—too bold.

His hand slid to Ronan’s belly with too-eager pressure, feeling it give under his hand, so fucking soft. He shuddered with pleasure, but Ronan flinched with his whole body, startled away from him, and Adam’s eyes snapped open, heart seizing.

“Shit, sorry,” Ronan said. His face was deeply flushed. He shot forward, curving his hands over the back of Adam’s skull, fingers lacing through his hair and brought their mouths back together.

The pause had made Adam too unsure to try again, so he brought his hand to Ronan’s thigh instead. His jeans were thin, and stretched, and did nothing to disguise the size of them. He found his fingers slipping through rips and tears, feeling the plushness of his thighs underneath.

It made Ronan squirm, made him shiver. It was intoxicating. Adam wanted to make him lose his mind, but he found his own was lost, instead.

Ronan let out a short, impatient growl, ripped away from the kiss, but kept his face close. Adam could feel his harsh, heated breath on his lips. “Fuck, Adam. You can—you can touch me. However, you want, okay? Just—”

“What? I don’t—” Adam hated how breathy his voice came out, how thickly accented.

Ronan didn’t wait for him to finish, grabbed his wrist, dragged Adam’s hand to his belly, and Adam gasped, stomach bottoming out. His eyes dropped to take in the sight of it. “Oh, God,” he said, fingers tensing, feeling it give under them.

“Christ,” Ronan breathed, awestruck. “You really—I thought…”

Adam flexed his fingers, helpless. He couldn't think, his mind hazy with lust, and he didn't understand. “You thought what?”

“Nothing, fuck, it doesn’t matter.” Ronan kissed him again, and it _burned_.

His belly was under Adam’s hand, heaving with every sucked in breath. Adam was shaking. He slid his palm up to feel the fullness of it, how it jutted out dramatically beneath his chest, round and swollen with food. Adam knew what feeling that would do to him, knew it would _ruin_ him, and he was just barely able to trap the noise of his undoing in his throat before he embarrassed himself more than he had already.

He wasn’t prepared for the way it made Ronan tense, made him moan, a tremulous, desperate sound—or the way he pressed closer, leaning into his hand, into his mouth. Adam gasped, stroking his hand over Ronan's belly over and over.

Ronan was pushing into the pressure, coming apart under his touch, his mouth growing clumsy, messy with distraction. Adam dipped his hand down lower, around his belly button, dragging his fingers over it through the fabric of Ronan’s muscle tee. It felt deep, surrounded by pounds of excess flesh, and it was so difficult to be gentle and searching when what he wanted was to squeeze and grab and pull Ronan so close to him they’d never come apart.

He could feel Ronan’s hips stutter, just barely, like he was trying to resist grinding them up into Adam’s hand. Ronan broke away to drag in a shaky lungful of air, tilt his head back, and moan. His head landed with a thud against the window, exposing his throat, and Adam _ached_. He kissed his way down Ronan’s softened jaw, chasing the feeling of plump flesh sucked into his mouth.

With Ronan’s mouth free, little aborted noises kept spilling out of it. He couldn’t seem to hold them back while he was gasping for breath and spitting curses.

Adam slid his fingers lower, curled them around the overhang of Ronan’s belly and Ronan said, breathy, “Oh, _fuck_. Jesus, God.”

Adam groaned, pressing his face into Ronan’s neck and let his hand wander, grabbing and kneading and reveling in all that softness weighing down his fingertips. When he’d let himself think about doing this with Ronan, he thought he’d be methodical. Thought he could channel everything into making Ronan feel good, but faced with the reality of it, he couldn't seem to focus—couldn't seem to stop wanting things for himself.

He latched his mouth onto Ronan’s neck and sucked, drew blood to the surface so he could admire the blotchy red marks blooming over his skin. He had the sudden, visceral need to do the same to Ronan’s belly, imagined it decorated in little hickeys made by Adam’s mouth.

He scraped his teeth over his pulse and traced fingers across the underside of Ronan’s belly where it spilled a little into his lap. It was impossibly soft—both the texture of his skin and the way it gave so easily under the pressure of Adam’s hand. And it must’ve been because his knuckles were grazing right over his jean zipper, and he could tell Ronan was hard underneath, because the touch made Ronan’s hands clench on Adam’s ribs, in his hair, and he said, “Holy fuck, shit. Motherfucking _Christ_ , Adam.”

Adam was seconds away from climbing over the center console to try and fit their bodies together, feel every achingly soft inch of Ronan writhing underneath him.

“Hey guys,” a voice said, cutting like a knife through the sounds of rain and wet kisses. They sprang apart, shouting.

Adam’s heart beat frantically and he turned his head to find Noah in the backseat, eyes covered in a paltry effort to preserve their modesty.

“What the holy fuck, Noah!? Get the hell out of here!” Ronan yelled.

He dropped his hands from his eyes and a wide, manic grin spread over his face. “Just thought you might want to know that Gansey’s on his way down. They think you’re fighting. I tried to tell him not to bother, but.” Noah shrugged, apologetic.

“Shit. Fuck.”

“Uh,” Adam said between shallow breaths, “thanks, man.”

“Knew you two crazy kids would get your act together, eventually.”

Adam jumped when he heard Gansey’s polite knock on the passenger’s side window behind him. He sighed and cracked the door open and Gansey’s ridiculously purple umbrella shielded them from the rain.

“What’s going on?” Gansey said.

“Everything’s under control,” Noah said, leaning forward to ruffle Adam’s hair and attempt to ruffle Ronan’s buzzcut, before disappearing between blinks.

Adam darted his eyes between Ronan’s and Gansey’s, trying to come up with a believable excuse. “We were just—”

“Making out,” Ronan said.

Adam choked on his laugh, and Gansey tutted at him, rolling his eyes. “Of course.”

“I'm serious, it was just getting hot and heavy.”

Adam watched Gansey’s face flush red, though he remained otherwise impeccably composed when he said, “Very funny, Lynch. Everything alright, then?”

“We’re _fine_ , Dick.”

Gansey narrowed his eyes and looked at Adam to double check. “Fine,” Adam said.

Gansey sighed like he knew something else was going on but didn’t want to press. “Well, come on, then. You’ve been out here for ten minutes.”

Gansey stepped back so that Adam could get out of the car. He chanced one look back at Ronan, just in time to catch him adjusting himself. The shock of getting caught had cut off Adam’s excitement, but clearly the same could not be said for Ronan. He turned away, heat burning his ears and the back of his neck as he climbed out and joined Gansey under the umbrella.

His heart thrummed in his chest, and when Ronan walked around the car, jacket thrown over his head like a tent, he had a strange urge to reach out for his free hand.

They walked up to the building, through the door where Gansey left his umbrella on the floor and climbed the stairs. Adam let Ronan pass in front of him so he could admire the curves of his body. One of Ronan’s thick love handles peeked out from the hem of his shirt where he'd failed to straighten it after they'd gotten out of the car. On impulse, he reached out a finger to trace the exposed skin.

Ronan tripped, turned back to look at him with his mouth open in disbelief. Adam felt his face shift into a grin and watched Ronan mirror it. He snatched Adam’s hand in his. Something fierce and warm spread through Adam’s chest.

When they got inside, Ronan tried to slip his hand away before Gansey and Blue could see, but Adam grasped tight, threaded their fingers more securely. He caught a smile flicker across Ronan’s face that told him it was the right call.

He could feel their eyes on him and Ronan as they walked up to the couch. Noah was grinning, delighted, and in unison, Gansey’s eyes opened wide and Blue’s eyebrows shot up into her choppy bangs. Gansey said, “Oh.”

And Blue said, “Oh!”

“Wow. When did this, um—”

Ronan dropped with a soft thump onto Gansey’s faded leather couch. Adam followed, sat close enough that their knees pressed together. Ronan tilted his head and hummed thoughtfully. “How long did you say we were out there? Ten minutes?”

“Jesus,” Gansey said, avoiding eye contact.

Blue elbowed Gansey in the ribs. “What he means to say is, that's wonderful. I'm so happy for you.”

Gansey's face paled with realization. “Oh, God. You were really making out, weren't you.”

Adam’s eyes flicked to the red marks on Ronan’s throat, feeling the urge to lift up the collar of his jacket to try and hide some of the more obvious ones. Ronan grinned, smug and infuriating and sexy. He said, “I don't lie, Dick.”

“I am _so_ sorry—”

Blue laughed and held out a fist to Ronan. “Nice,” she said.

Ronan bumped it. “Thanks, bro.”

 

***

 

Adam was drifting in and out of sleep, lulled by the faint sound of organ music and rhythmic prayer emanating from beneath his floorboards. St. Agnes was quiet most of the time, but Adam had grown fond of the ambient noise of Sunday mass.

He was enjoying the rarity of having a free morning, and his dream stopped and started as he woke and slipped back into sleep.

The dream was this: Cabeswater in summer, everything colored that intense, vibrant green and bathed in warm sunlight. Adam’s head rested on Ronan’s belly, arms draped over his thighs. Moths fluttered through the air, or maybe birds. He could hear distant laughter, cicadas. Felt roots grow from the base of his spine into the cool earth. Everything was soft. He nuzzled the side of his face into Ronan’s belly and he moved, shifted, his fat rippling against Adam’s cheek.

He woke to the sound of a key in his lock. Only one person in his life had the key to the apartment above St. Agnes and actually bothered to use it. As he drifted back into consciousness, Adam realized the music had stopped. He stretched and flipped over just in time to see Ronan come through the door.

He was wearing his Sunday best: black on black on black. It stole the breath from Adam’s lungs how good he looked, how the jacket fit so closely to the curves of his body, tight enough that he wasn’t sure that the sides would join together comfortably—if Ronan could button it at all. The way his shirt, tucked in for once in his life, framed his belly. The way that, below his silky tie, the lower buttons strained just enough to make the fabric pull, fanned out in little ridges on either side. Whoever said that black was slimming had never seen Ronan Lynch fill out this suit.

Adam was awake now. His gaze drifted up to Ronan’s face and Ronan was smirking, cocky, twirling his keys on one finger, the other hand in his pocket, pulling at the seams of his slacks.

“Shit, Parrish, it’s almost ten. You having a lazy ass Sunday without me?”

“Not anymore, apparently,” he complained, dramatic and insincere.

“Apparently.”

Ronan took a step closer. He tossed his keys onto Adam’s desk, toed out of his boots, and curled his fingers around the loose knot of his tie, starting to pull it free.

“No, wait.” Adam sat up, freed his legs from the tangle of sheets. Ronan stopped. “Come here.”

Ronan sighed like he was deeply put upon, but took another step towards him. He stopped just short of standing between Adam’s thighs, so Adam grabbed either side of his blazer and pulled him closer.

“I hate this fucking suit,” Ronan said. “Thought you might appreciate it, though.”

Adam’s hands trailed over Ronan’s sides. Distracted, he said, “Oh yeah? And why is that?”

“Hmm.” With Adam’s mattress on the floor, Ronan’s belly was perfectly at eye level, but he wouldn’t let his gaze linger. He stared up at Ronan’s face instead, admiring the way the low angle made it look softer, rounder, fuller. “Found it at the back of my closet,” Ronan said, his words careful and sly in equal measure, like he wanted to gauge Adam’s reaction. “It's been awhile since I wore it.”

Adam’s reaction was immediate, visceral. He swallowed and his eyes flicked down again, taking in the jut of Ronan’s belly, how it cascaded over the belt, not quite covering it from view. He moved his hands under Ronan’s jacket to fit them around his love handles, taking in the doughy feel of them. Ronan’s expression shifted, more pleased with himself with every second Adam looked at him.

“You don’t say.” Adam’s voice was a thick molasses drawl. He marvelled for a moment how Ronan must have known how this would affect him, when, in the days since they first kissed, they hadn’t talked about Adam’s fixation.

“Bit of a tight squeeze,” Ronan said. Adam hummed in agreement, echoing the words by gripping handfuls of Ronan’s sides. Ronan drew a sharp breath. “But I thought it’d be worth it to see the look on your face.”

“And?”

Adam looked up, and Ronan’s grin caught like a hook through his gut. “Definitely worth it,” Ronan said.

“Shut up.”

Adam gave into the urge to press his face against Ronan’s belly without making the decision to do so. Immediately, he realized that it was the first time he’d done it. Heat flared through him. Ronan’s breath stuttered, and Adam let his cheek, his nose, his mouth, drag over the taut fabric of his shirt. He let himself sink into that heat and softness, let himself wonder what it would feel like with Ronan’s bare skin against his.

“ _Adam_.”

Adam pulled his head back to look up at him, and, awestruck, said, “You really like when I do this.” He didn't ask why, knew better than to bother trying, even though he'd been wondering since that first time, when just Adam's hand on his gut left Ronan shaking apart.

“Do _what_ ,” Ronan said, vicious with impatience. “You're not doing _anything_ , just—”

“You know what I mean.” Adam dragged his fingertips over Ronan's belly until he heard his breath hitch. “You like this.”

Ronan rolled his eyes and kept them locked on the ceiling. He said, “Yeah, no shit.” He was flushed pink down the column of his throat. “So do you, so shut the fuck up and keep fucking doing it.”

“Huh,” Adam said, calculating. “Guess I can't argue with that.”

He grabbed a handful of Ronan's belly, bolder than he usually got so early in the game, but if Ronan liked it even _half_ as much as he did, why did he keep holding himself back? So he took the handful and shook it just to watch it jiggle. Fascinated, Adam noted that the shirt was so tight it held in most of the motion.

Ronan's eyes were shut and he was biting his lip hard, and he was so, so red. Adam slid the tip of his finger into the space between buttons, curled it up and around to tug at the material and feel the softness of his skin. There was so little give to it, wrapped so tightly around Ronan's widest part, and it thrilled him, the rush of it going to his head.

He let it snap back against Ronan's skin and he said, “Jesus, this is so tight, Ronan.”

Ronan hummed in agreement, shaky.

Adam grabbed the sides of his suit jacket and tugged until he could see how it really fit. He buttoned the highest one, the one nestled right above the swell of Ronan's belly, but the others didn't even come close. The jacket was a perfect frame for the roundness of him, a measurement of every pound he’d gained since he bought it. Intellectually, Adam knew it would fit like that, but seeing it made him feel untethered, dizzy.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed. “When did you say you wore this last?”

“I didn't,” Ronan growled. After a moment, he swallowed, added, “Six months ago.”

“Ah. Um.” Adam licked his lips. He smoothed his hands down either side of Ronan’s belly, tugged at the blazer that had ridden up, mezmerised.

Ronan trailed his fingers across Adam’s cheek, swept them under his chin, gentle, gentle, and tilted his face up so he was looking at Ronan’s. He said, “Forty pounds.”

“What,” Adam said, blinking up at Ronan’s smirking, self-satisfied face.

“When I bought this. It was forty pounds ago.”

Adam’s heart stuttered, stomach swooped. “Shit.”

“You wanna know something else?”

“ _Yes_.”

“This used to be my fat suit.”

“Your. Oh.” Adam drew in a careful breath. “That’s.”

Ronan arched an eyebrow, waiting for more, but Adam’s mind was quiet, for once, drifting in pleasure, and no more words came to him. Ronan snorted and slid his hand back to curl his fingers in Adam’s hair. “Eloquent, Parrish,” he said, sounding so satisfied with himself.

Glaring at Ronan, he rose to his knees and without looking, pushed Ronan’s tie out of the way and popped a button open. When he saw Ronan’s eyes go dark and his smile falter, Adam looked down.

Ronan’s belly had pushed the fabric apart between buttons, pooching out in a tiny swell of fat now that it wasn’t restrained by his shirt. Adam leaned forward and put his lips to that skin because he hadn’t stopped thinking about doing it for _weeks_. The heat hit him first, and then the silkiness of his skin, and then the way his flesh indented under the lightest pressure from his lips.

Adam looked back up, kept his eyes fixed on Ronan as he parted his lips and kissed him again, again, again. Ronan’s lashes were fluttering like he was struggling to keep his eyes open, but couldn’t tear them away.

There was this exhilarating, impossible rush of power bleeding into the high of touching Ronan. He sucked Ronan's belly fat into his mouth, laved it with his tongue, popped another button, and another, and covered every inch of exposed skin in sloppy, wet kisses. Ronan's hand was tight in his hair and his stomach was soft and yielding against his face and every kiss made the fire under his skin grow brighter, hotter. He would’ve lost himself in it if Ronan hadn’t gasped, harsh and loud in the silence of St. Agnes.

Adam’s eyes flew open to find Ronan's shut tight, a knit between his brows, his mouth open, drawing in careful, deliberate breaths. He laughed and said, “You doing okay, Ronan?”

“God, fuck _off_ , fuck you.”

Adam was overcome by the need to kiss him. He took the dark silk of Ronan’s tie in his fist, and for a moment, had the urge to tighten it around his throat, the way he never did himself. Instead, he tugged him down until their lips connected, until he had Ronan’s tongue, until he was crawling backwards onto the bed with Ronan hunched over him with his knees and his palms braced on the mattress, caging Adam in.

Adam’s hips arched off the bed, wanting Ronan closer, on top of him, between his thighs. He still had a hand wrapped around the tie, but Ronan resisted going any further and pulled back. Adam’s eyes blinked open to see Ronan holding back a smile. He said, “Easy, Parrish, it’s the goddamn Lord’s day.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed. “Are you serious?”

“Damn straight.”

“As much as I want to make a gay joke right now, I really don't have time for this.”

“No? You in some kind of hurry?”

Adam generally liked to think of himself as mature, patient, but his desperation made him feel so far from that. “God, Ronan, you're impossible. Come _on_ , just—”

“Say ‘please,’” Ronan said, simpering.

“Screw you.”

Frustrated, Adam pushed and flipped Ronan over so his back was against the mattress and Adam was on top of him, straddling his fat thigh, finally, finally. Adam arched against him, against the soft expanse of his belly, and kissed the smile off his face.

Adam pulled back only when he needed to gasp for air, when the tease of their bodies rubbing against each other through their clothes was too much to bear and he needed _more_. He slid off Ronan’s tie and tossed it onto the floor even though he was sure it cost more than he was willing to think about. Ronan propped himself up on his elbows and watched him through long lashes as Adam thumbed open the remaining buttons of his shirt, tugged the hem from Ronan’s waistband.

And there he was—his belly and chest exposed and calling Adam’s attention in equal measures. But his impatience evaporated, faced with being exactly where he wanted to be. He spent a long time drinking in the sight, fingers ghosting over the skin, almost-but-not-quite touching.

“Fucking Christ, Adam, just touch me already.”

Adam smirked, dragging his fingertips in a light circle around Ronan’s navel. “Now who’s in a hurry?”

“Very fucking funny.”

His hands were grasping Adam’s thighs, thumbs slipped up underneath the hem of his worn boxers to feel skin. The sensation was electrifying. His mouth was dry. He traced his index finger over Ronan’s nipple and grinned, victorious, when Ronan gasped.

“Seriously, I can’t, Adam, I _need_ —”

“Say ‘please.’”

“You—” Ronan growled, and then he pushed himself up enough to dislodge Adam, rolled them both over just a little too far.

Adam’s back hit the floor and Ronan landed on top of him. “Ow,” he said, mildly.

“Shit.” Ronan laughed. “Sorry.”

When the shock of the impact wore off, Adam was left beneath the full weight of Ronan Lynch. A storm raged through his body, an insatiable yearning to feel every pound, every ounce of him.  He took in a shuddery breath and said, “Yeah, right.”

His fingers wrapped tight around Ronan’s hips, his love handles, holding him there in case he had any bright ideas about moving. Adam was panting, he realized. Trembling. Because that was Ronan’s belly pressed against his cock, smothering him in soft, heavy, _perfect_ heat.

Adam squirmed, shifted his hips. A shaky, quiet noise slipped out and he buried his face in Ronan’s chest in an attempt to silence himself. But with Ronan’s softened pecs on either side of his face, he just had to keep biting sounds back. Ronan let him nuzzle the sides of them, kiss them, clutch him close, so close, but eventually he broke away, braced himself on his hands so he wasn’t crushing him anymore.

He said, “Adam. Jesus shit, do you want me to fucking suffocate you?”

Adam smiled. “Kind of.”

“You’re fucking crazy.” Ronan sat up and stripped out of his shirt and jacket, tossed them across the room. He threw his weight back over Adam’s body and kissed him, hot and wet and needy.

Ronan broke away with a gasp, trailed kisses across his jawline until he was whispering into his hearing ear. “Adam.” He slid his hands up Adam’s arms, moved them up and behind his head until he had a grip on his wrists, holding them down.

The pressure of his weight left Adam dizzy, breathless. He could barely move, and without the ability to touch, all he could do was feel. He could hear soft sounds tumble out of his open mouth, but he couldn't stop them. Adam hated feeling so out of control.

Except he didn’t. Couldn’t find it in himself to care, to push back, because it felt _right_ being here, with Ronan looking at him like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Even with his arms held down, he didn't feel trapped, or helpless. He was enveloped, contained, safe.

And then Ronan started rocking against him, dragging his belly fat over Adam’s cock. “Oh,” Adam said, “ _fuck_.”

His hips arched into it, chasing the overwhelming, crushing pleasure—eyes raking over what he could see of Ronan’s body, every inch of it alive with motion, shaking, jiggling.

Ronan let go of his wrists to lace their fingers together. He was hard against Adam’s thigh so he raised it to grind into him. “Holy mother of fuck,” Ronan spat, hips stuttering. “God, Adam.”

His belly surrounded Adam in softness, and he could feel every wave of motion against him. He was delirious—sweaty and shuddering and so, so close.

Ronan’s rhythm began to falter, expression going tight, almost pained, his mouth open and letting out helpless, breathy sounds.

Adam moaned, shattered, fell apart. “Ronan,” he said, “Ronan,” and he came, drowning in sensation.

He let it overtake him, pleasure spreading through every corner of him, and when he opened his eyes, body loose and tingling, he saw Ronan’s snap shut and felt him shudder against him. He collapsed, face in Adam’s throat, and released Adam’s hands. “Jesus shit fuck,” he whispered.

The sound of their panting breaths filled St. Agnes. He brought one hand up to Ronan’s head, fingers stroking through the velvety texture of his hair. Ronan was draped over him, dead weight. With his hands free, Adam could grab handfuls of whatever part of Ronan he could reach. His eyelids drifted shut, heavy with sleepiness.

Ronan’s lips were pressing gentle kisses to his neck. He said, “Adam? You falling asleep on me?”

“Mmm.”

“Can we at least get on the fucking bed, first?”

The hardwood floor was going to be hell on his already aching back, but at the moment, he couldn’t care less. “Mmm,” he said.

Ronan wiggled out of Adam’s grip, hooked one arm under his knees and shoved the other under his back. He picked Adam up with a grunt and dumped him unceremoniously onto the mattress.

It all happened too quickly for Adam’s sluggish brain to process, so his only protest was a shout when he landed.

“You _dick_ ,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He didn’t appreciate being startled out of sleep, but at least it meant, now that his eyes were open, that he got to watch Ronan shimmy out of his slacks and briefs and climb into bed with him.

Ronan kissed him, slid his fingers across Adam’s stomach until he got to the waistband of his boxers. It sent a shiver down Adam’s spine.

“You gonna sleep in these?” Ronan said against his lips.

They were filthy, Adam realized. “Ugh. No.”

He lifted his hips so Ronan could strip him out of his underwear, and then they were both gloriously naked, pressed together skin to skin. Adam’s blood started pumping faster, chasing away every part of him that had ever been interested in sleep.

But Ronan sprawled across his body without intent, one arm and one leg thrown over him, face pillowed on Adam’s chest.

He was so heavy.

Adam tried to put it out of his mind, to relax, close his eyes, focus on the comfort of being held in someone’s arms, on the blissful satisfaction of sex, and not on the rolls of fat on Ronan’s back, soft under his fingertips. He lasted about five minutes.

“Are you awake?” Adam whispered. He realized it was a stupid question as soon as he asked.

Ronan snorted and said, “The fuck do you think?”

“Asshole.”

“Mhm.”

Adam paused before saying, “Hey, Ronan?”

Ronan lifted up his head to look at him. “Yeah?”

Adam took in his face, his heavy-lidded blue eyes, his flushed, chubby cheeks, his kiss-bitten lips. “Fuck sleep,” he said, and kissed Ronan until he couldn’t breathe.

He was wide awake.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you're interested in chubby Raven Boys, you can follow my Tumblr [chubstilinski](http://chubstilinski.tumblr.com/)


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